


Déjà Vu

by fawatson



Category: North Face - Mary Renault, Return to Night - Mary Renault
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-18
Updated: 2015-12-18
Packaged: 2018-05-07 11:18:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5454689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fawatson/pseuds/fawatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Surgeon and Sister work together to treat an accident victim and support his family.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Déjà Vu

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Naraht](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naraht/gifts).



> **Requests:**  
>  _North Face:_ If you offer this book, you probably only have to read the first quarter of it (combined with a little judicious searching), because after an intriguing start it goes on to focus on the dreary Neil/Ellen romance. Mary Renault wrote two books in one with North Face, and I really want to see how the first one would have turned out. Or at least see Miss Fisher and Miss Searle given something more interesting to observe in their capacity as onlookers. As lilliburlero points out, the two women are obviously two sides of Mary Renault's personality. Yet the fascinating thing is that she's much more sympathetic to Miss Fisher, the vulgar, practical lower-middle-class nurse, than she is to Miss Searle, the virginal ivory-tower Oxbridge don. I really like Miss Fisher, indelibly stamped by her career from the age of eighteen, with her envy for those who have Every Advantage and her inchoate yearnings for things she can't quite express. In the pantheon of Renault characters she can really only be compared with Reg, being a lot deeper than the characters around her give her credit for. It would be interesting to read a scenario where they meet again in a completely different context (Miss Searle in hospital, Miss Fisher visiting Oxford?), or a crossover with other Renault characters, or to see them in the context of their wider families. I can see them both as actively involved aunts (Miss Searle has her nephew at Winchester). I also have an admittedly sentimental longing to see Miss Fisher given a slightly happier ending, whether with a sympathetic houseman or not. But this is 100% optional.  
>  _Return to Night_ : (a) Hilary's lifelong love affair with nicotine; (b) Any outsider perspective on Hilary. From the disapproving eyes of Matron, Mrs Theobald or Mrs Fleming, to one of her medical mentors, to someone perhaps falling unexpectedly in love with her. I would adore any different viewpoint on Hilary, whether jaundiced, worshipful or anywhere in between. 
> 
> **Disclaimer:**  
>  I do not own these characters and make no profit by them.
> 
>  **Author’s Notes:**  
>  (a) Aneurin Bevan (known as ‘Nye’) was the architect of plans for the National Health Service set up in Great Britain after WWII.  
> (b) ‘Tib and fib’ refers to the two bones in the leg below the knee, the tibia (the larger) and the fibula (the small).  
> (c) The full saying Hilary is half-remembering when she speaks with the aunt is: “There are none so blind as those who will not see. The most deluded people are those who choose to ignore what they already know.” Two possible sources have been identified for this saying: either Thomas Chalkeley (1713 in the United States) or Jonathan Swift (in 1738 in his _Polite Conversation_ , in England).  
> (d) According to Wikipedia the No. 14 bentwood chair made by the Thonet chair company was introduced in 1859. It became one of the best-selling chairs ever made. Some 50 million No. 14s were sold between 1859 and 1930. Undoubtedly some went to hospitals.  
> (e) Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772-1834) was addicted to opium (in the form of laudanum). His poem “Kubla Khan” was inspired by an opium dream. His famous long poem “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner” includes an albatross. 
> 
> **Acknowledgements:**  
>  Many thanks to my sister who beta'd this story.

Sister Robinson had been so busy Christmas shopping, she was almost late for her shift. She did know better. The timing had always been that bit too tight. But she had seen the perfect train set for young Geoffrey in a shop window on her way home from the hospital the day before; and she had just _known_ if she didn’t go back this morning first thing, someone would snap it up. They just didn’t make model trains like that nowadays; there were positively _miles_ of track, plus a station platform, sidings, bridges – the whole nine yards! So she caught the Number 5 bus, which passed right by the Sally Ann’s charity shop and nipped in to get it. She almost missed the Number 37; but a sprint got her on the bus just as it pulled away from the stop. She smiled at the conductor, who gave her a stern look as he cranked out her ticket, and she let her coat fall open just enough to show her uniform underneath. His face softened; all the world loves a nurse (and Sister Robinson was well aware of how to make the most of it). At the next stop, when an elderly gentleman vacated a seat in the crowded bus, the conductor deftly obstructed the pretty young woman who was closest, and signalled her to claim it.

Once at the hospital, Sister Robinson hastened to leave coat and bulging shopping bags in her locker before she made her way to Men’s Surgical. Nurse Jones’ china-blue eyes shone with relief when they saw her. Sister Robinson gave no outward sign; but inwardly she grinned. No doubt Dr Mansell would be relieved too. There was no question Nurse Jones wasn’t the brightest button in the box; but she at least knew her dressings (and was a useful extra pair of hands to sit with a patient as he came round from surgery, even if one did have to watch her recordings rather too close for comfort). The lay public might have thought hospitals would be miraculously transformed in the new National Health; but Sister knew better. If there were no qualified nurses to hire before, what made there suddenly be more later? Certainly not the stroke of Nye Bevan’s pen. The experience of making do in a chronically short-staffed hospital had taught Sister to be grateful when she had anyone she could rely on.

It had also taught her surprise that she even _had_ Nurse Jones to assist with prepping patients and in theatre. She was really too pretty to have stayed single so long. No doubt that was why she had moved a year ago from some rural cottage hospital to London: in search of fresh fields in which to husband hunt. There was some history between little Jones and the good doctor (quite what she didn’t know, and knew enough of hospital politics not to ask); but Dr Mansell had had that _look_ in her eyes the first time she clapped eyes on the bird-brained nurse. As she prepared theatre, all the while _watched_ , rather than helped by Jones (though she did complete tasks when told), Sister had a mental image of a little house sparrow, pecking at crumbs, nervously looking round to find herself watched by a sparrow-hawk. No wonder Jones was on tenterhooks round the ever-competent Dr Mansell.

Sister made one last check of the instruments.  Lest she contaminate, she carefully used a cloth so her hands did not touch as she reversed the order of retractors in the tray.  Just as she shifted the last one, Dr Mansell strode in, gowned and masked. It sent Sister hurrying to the sink to scrub. There was no one else on duty today and the thought of only Nurse Jones being ready to assist in theatre added urgency; she wielded her nail brush vigorously. Dr Mansell had an acerbic side, which simply reduced Nurse Jones to dithering. There was another operation on the list, planned to follow closely behind this one; and it would never do for inadequacies of nursing to slow the schedule.

* * * * * * *

The sense of déjà vu was acute. True, this was a well-equipped London hospital and she was Surgical Registrar, not the on-call G.P. to a cottage hospital in Gloucestershire. But the patient was a young man, and…a quick glance at his chart opened Hilary’s eyes wide: JR Fleming, age 23, currently being bathed and prepped by that very same nurse. Though for nasty compound fractures of the right tib and fib, _not_ a subdural haematoma. James Ralph…no, she knew no one of Julian’s connection with that name. She supposed she could double check later; Julian planned to come by Guy’s to meet her after his performance at the Haymarket finished. With relief, as she checked the patient had responded to his pre-operative sedation, Hilary noted his chocolate brown eyes, weather-beaten complexion and curly brown hair. There was such a thing as too great a parallel. Nonetheless, she felt a sense of inevitability when Sister murmured the next of kin had been contacted, was on her way, but would be some time in arriving as she had to travel from Oxford. Of course, there would be that connection too.

The rubber sheet was in place and the porter efficiently transferred the young man from gurney to operating table while Hilary gestured Nurse to adjust the height of the surgical stool. Mr Robinson had used it last shift and he was considerably taller than she. Hilary nodded when it was low enough for comfort; looking up she caught a brief glint of humour in Sister’s face before she composed her ‘theatre face’, as Hilary termed it. She rather liked the Sister: straightforward, no-nonsense, with wry insight into the foibles and failings of humanity as seen through the lens of hospital life, conscious of the broad humour of it all (with occasional salacious enjoyment) but, in the final analysis, compassionate. And with an odd liking for Chaucer, and AE Housman. (Hilary had once found her reading the Bath Wife to a patient.) An efficient nurse, loyal wife to Hilary’s counterpart on Surgical Team One, and devoted stepmother to his little boy Geoffrey. She could do much worse than rely on this Sister’s skills. In fact…a swift critical look and a terse command sent Nurse Jones scurrying for sponges.

The leg was a bit of a mess: jagged edged bone had pierced the skin in two places. There were the expected minor scrapes surrounding the main trauma to the leg. But what made Hilary frown was the extent of dirt on the bone itself. Infection was inevitable. She could reduce the fracture. There would be loss of bone as she tidied the ends and, the young man would certainly limp. But that was assuming he healed. An open fracture was always more tricky; but where the bone was clean there was a chance. This, however, was smeared with what looked remarkably like dung. _Where_ he had found such in London of all places, she could not imagine. Nor was it relevant. Only the inevitable aftermath fell within her purview. There was no certainty he would recover from that potentially lethal combination of shock and infection. Hilary checked; there was already an order for penicillin. He would need to be specialled.

While she had been examining the leg, the anaesthetist had been busy with breathing mask, cylinders, and gauges. Hilary looked across the patient in query and received a nod of confirmation. She smiled and, head bent and gaze intent on the wounds, held out her right hand.

“Sister, scalpel please.”

* * * * * * *

The doctor had closely followed her patient from theatre to the tiny post-op side-ward used as a recovery area for patients. Traction was needed and Sister Robinson knew Dr Mansell would not skimp the time to ensure it was set just right. Many surgeons left that sort of thing to their houseman and checked it later (administering scathing comment that stripped out smugness if the junior got it wrong, rather like an enema clearing the bowels). But Dr Mansell had a reputation for doing for herself, showing rather than instructing. Her standards were no less exacting; her methods were less brutal. (Perhaps it was the woman’s touch?) Regardless, Sister knew it would be several minutes before Dr Mansell would be ready to speak with the patient’s relative (who, in all probability, had arrived long since and was waiting to hear the operation’s conclusion). It would perhaps even take that much longer if the doctor paused to have a cigarette before meeting family. She had a reputation for that too.

Sister set in motion the clearing of theatre, issuing detailed instructions to Nurse Jones and the grey-haired porter. He was experienced and steady; _he’d_ keep _her_ on track. Sister Robinson only paused to strip off gloves and mask, and change her blood smeared apron for fresh, before making her way down the corridor to the airing closet. She selected two grey wool blankets from the very back – the warmest as they had been there longest – replacing them with two cold covers from the shelves immediately outside the door. She remembered to shut it firmly before bringing the blankets to the patient, where they were tucked round him.

She listened respectfully to Dr Mansell’s directives about how often she wanted his vital signs taken: nothing different from what she already expected, but the formal orders needed to be made regardless. The doctor had moved away from the bed while she updated the chart; Sister felt a slight inward satisfaction at her predictability as Dr Mansell fumbled in one pocket for lighter and cigarette while writing her instructions. But the cigarette was not lit, as the doctor suddenly noticed Nurse Jones out of the corner of her eye. For once the girl had used her initiative. Dr Mansell was just in time to stop her from removing the warm blankets just placed, to substitute others she had brought, brown blankets Sister recognised immediately as the ones she herself had only just put into the airing closet. Jones wilted visibly at the doctor’s caustic tone when she was dismissed; and Dr Mansell bent back to the task of checking her patient’s position, and showing her houseman how to adjust the tension.

Yes, it would be a while before Dr Mansell had the patient settled to her satisfaction. Sister turned toward the waiting room; she had held the fort with anxious relatives many a time while this surgeon was busy with more important matters. The family would, no doubt, be frustrated to see only her instead of the surgeon in charge; but fielding their anxieties was also part of her duties.

There was a nasty draught in the waiting area. One of the high Victorian windows had warped slightly so it no longer ran smoothly in its frame and could not be completely shut. It rendered the room unfit for its original purpose as a side ward for patients, and allowed the surgical unit the luxury of an actual _room_ for relatives to wait (Ladies Surgical merely had a row of chairs in one corridor), anxiously or otherwise, each according to his nature, for news of their loved ones. The operation had been long; and the sun had shifted round so it was now shining through the west window, the bevelled edges of which acted like prisms and painted rainbows across the arsenic green wall opposite. One beam of light fell short, illuminating in a rosy glow the worn leather-bound Chaucer held by the waiting room’s only occupant.

She had not seen the woman for a very long time; but watching Miss Searle in the relatives’ room stripped the past ten years away. Perhaps she was a little greyer than she had been at that guest house in Devon (what had it been called?) but as the woman sat primly in the sagging chair, ankles crossed neatly, reading a book, Sister Robinson could have believed she had been transported back to that holiday she took just after the war. Discreetly she checked the ring finger; yes it was still _Miss_ Searle. Sister looked at her own ring finger with some satisfaction – no longer Miss Fisher. That woman was long gone, thanks, in part to the spinster in the waiting room, her surprisingly bawdy Chaucer, and the snooty way she had looked down on the world round her. The on-the-shelf Miss Fisher had begun to read, and, two years later, hopped off the shelf into the widowed arms of Duncan Robinson – former houseman, now newly appointed General Surgeon – when their paths crossed again. She doubted Miss Searle would remember her; _she_ remembered though and it was sufficient.

“Is that the parent?”

She must have been wool-gathering longer than she’d realised, was Sister’s startled thought, as she turned round to find Dr Mansell behind her, still garbed in surgical whites. A discrete sniff confirmed the doctor had taken a moment for a calming cigarette. The relative would never find out about that brief delay from _her,_ though.

Dr Mansell was waiting and Sister hastened to answer, “No, an aunt, I believe.” She realised she had not checked her records. Her clear memories of Miss Searle droning on about her nephew at Winchester were what had informed her. For form’s sake she confirmed memory with a quick look at the notes. “Yes, an aunt; but she is listed as next of kin.”

“I’ll have a quick word while you prep the patient for visitors. He is already starting to come round,” said Dr Mansell.

Sister paused in the doorway for a few more moments to observe Dr Mansell’s approach, Miss Searle’s inevitable start of surprise when she realised a woman had operated (so much for those superior airs she had assumed all those years before about women’s equality – she made just the same assumptions as everyone else), and the start of Dr Mansell’s calm explanations. She did not stay for the rest. She might be slower than others before coming to meet waiting relatives after surgery; but this doctor had a reputation for good skills with distressed family members, a bit long-winded perhaps, but Sister’s own brand of soothing would not be needed _here_.

* * * * * * *

Hilary recognised the type instantly: what an earlier generation used to call a ‘blue-stocking,’ a phrase which always brought to mind the image of a vain peacock displaying his glorious blue-green feathers (so why it had come to be associated with female scholarship she really couldn’t imagine). This woman - from her memory quite typical of other female dons, devoted to scholarship, whom  she had seen before the war when she herself was at college - was more the pea hen: dressed in brown herringbone tweed (a bit shabby, with leather patches on the elbows) and white blouse (with just a touch of lace on the collar); her thin legs clad in beige nylon, leading to feet shod in sensible brown pumps from Clark’s. Miss Searle quickly established her credentials as a Fellow at Lady Margaret Hall; Hilary countered with her own Oxford credentials.

The woman spoke with dry precision, clearly trying to maintain an equilibrium; not for her the emotional scenes the less well-bred or well-educated might indulge in. Nonetheless she emphasised the young man’s importance. The patient was this woman’s sole relative, and he hers, his parents having died in a boating accident three years ago. He was the bright white hope, having taken a first in mathematics two years before, and with a brilliant future ahead of him. Miss Searle was clearly devoted to him as the only offspring from a family with diminishing numbers; and he reciprocated. They were very close.

Hilary suspected if the shoe were on the other foot, and it was the aunt lying ill in hospital, she might be hearing a different story about the bond between aunt and nephew from young James Ralph; but that was neither here nor there. She spoke all the soothing platitudes at her disposal. In years gone by she might have scorned them; greater experience taught her the wisdom of what David had said long ago: one could try to explain too much. The lay mind – even one as well disciplined and erudite as Miss Searle’s – could not take it in. Nonetheless she must prepare her somewhat. Even with the benefits of modern antibiotics, this young man might well not live. She had not removed his leg in this operation; but, if gangrene set in (a distinct possibility), the next one would see him left with just one. And if _that_ did not check the infection….

Hilary tried to convey the potential seriousness of the situation to Miss Searle; but the woman was oblivious.

“The wound was not clean,” she explained.

“But you say you cleaned it,” countered the aunt, “or are you now saying you did not?” The latter was accompanied by a cold frown.

“As best I could,” Hilary elaborated patiently, “but the damage may well have been done by then, with bacteria from the surface of his leg having already entered the circulatory system, _before_ he arrived at hospital. His legs were _very_ dirty," she added with gentle emphasis, as blank incomprehension continued on Miss Searle's face. There are none so blind as those who will not see.

“He is a _very_ clean person.”

“Yes, but London isn’t,” replied Hilary firmly. Normally, immediately after an operation, with so much still hanging in the balance, she would simply ask the next of kin to trust her. Certainly it would reassure this woman. But, Hilary thought in frustration, this time it would be wrong to give that sense of assurance. The young man might well die, not so much from the broken bones, but from the fever that would follow.

“May I see him?” asked Miss Searle.

“Of course,” replied Hilary. “He will still be groggy from the anaesthetic; but there is no harm in you sitting with him.”

* * * * * * *

Sister heard them coming well before their figures appeared in the doorway. During daylight, busy inner-city hospitals were generally noisy with the hustle and bustle of daily routine: meals being served on squeaky carts; the coordinated sounds of patients being turned, bathed, having dressings changed; nurses administering medicines; doctors’ doing rounds, complete with their entourage of medical students. Not to mention the noise of family visiting (talking in whispers, but even that added a susurration to the background). Victorian corridors echoed, amplifying. But night-time was different. Strict regimes meant everything shut down. It was a time for sleep; and quiet was enforced for everything but the most desperate emergency. Not that the hospital was quite at that point _now_ ; it was only twilight. But the process of shutting down had begun with the daily eviction of all relatives. A few minutes ago, Sister had heard them leave down the main hallway to this wing, the exodus taking them, in twos and threes, right past the branching corridor which led to this room. None had hesitated at the juncture, nor paused in their grumbling about the strictness of the order to leave and lack of time with their loved ones. They had not even noticed the small corridor they passed, oblivious to the side ward. Now, however, Sister Robinson heard two sets of steps turn down it.

Only one entered. Dr Mansell paused briefly to watch; and her eyes met Sister’s over the short distance of the room. But she merely nodded, as Sister acknowledged her equally silently, and left. There was only one chair, a battered beech bentwood, which Sister vacated to offer Miss Searle. She stood by the foot of the bed, silent observer to this unhappy reunion.

Before she sat, Miss Searle positioned the chair so she could see her nephew’s face.  The legs of the chair scraped slightly against the linoleum floor, a rude and abrupt sound in the still room. It roused the patient, at least enough that his eyes flickered open. Miss Searle half-raised herself from the chair and bent toward him: not so far that Sister would need to intervene, but sufficient to look into his eyes.

“Jamie, it’s Aunt Edith,” she said clearly and distinctly, but not loudly. One could easily imagine this voice being used in a classroom; perhaps not a large lecture hall (its reedy quality would not carry the distance) but the tone was calculated to rouse and keep the attention of any within earshot.

The patient essayed a weak smile and his eyes shone with recognition. “Aunt Surly,” he whispered. “They shouldn’t have dragged you away from your students. It’s just my leg. I’ll be all right.”

His eyes flickered shut again. Sister half-expected some attempt to wake him further and was poised to prevent it; but Miss Searle simply settled back in the chair, watching her nephew, book and handbag abandoned on the floor beside her chair. Her face was composed; but the grim line of her lips revealed her feelings more than she would have liked to believe. The two women waited in silence, one standing, one sitting. Distantly a car horn sounded. From the street outside, some man could be heard shouting; but the sound was disconnected from the world inside the room, and not acknowledged by its occupants.

After several minutes, Sister glanced down, first consulting the watch appended to the left side of her bodice, before she looked at the chart hanging on the end of the patient’s bed. She knew the orders by heart; but the routine of good practice nonetheless demanded she double-check. Blood pressure first: the cuff was pumped up and readings were taken. The patient moaned gently as she moved him, and shifted slightly, which made the traction lines quiver; but he did not wake.

“Is he in pain?” asked Miss Searle. She sat forward, a bit like a watchdog scenting an intruder.

Sister consulted the chart before speaking. “Unlikely, he was given a grain of morphine just before you joined him. He isn’t due another yet. Leg injuries can be painful; but more likely he is dreaming. This medication affects some people that way.”

“Coleridge dreamed,” remarked Miss Searle, easing back down.

Vaguely, Sister recalled the name from the dim mists of her school days: he was the one who’d written that tedious long poem about a bird. Trust Miss Searle to think of that at a time like this. Sister continued her work, this time taking temperature. It confirmed scientifically what the sheen of sweat on the patient’s skin and slight flush of his cheeks had already told her. Fever was starting to rise; and the patient would only become more and more restless. It was definitely time for the relative to leave.

“There really is nothing more you can do for him,” she began. “He knows you have visited, which is very important; but he is asleep now.”

Miss Searle looked up blankly, her inner musings disturbed by Sister’s speech but not really interrupted.

“I suggest you get a good night’s rest and come back in the morning. There is no benefit to him if you exhaust yourself. You need to keep your strength up, or you will be unable to be there for him when he most needs you.”

“But if he wakes in the night?”

“No, no, there is no chance of _that_.” Sister forbore to explain he might not wake ever. “He only roused when you arrived because the medication hadn’t taken full effect at that point; and, of course, because he was pleased to see you.” She wasn’t entirely sure of that; but it was undoubtedly the kind thing to say to an anxious aunt. “He will definitely sleep until visiting hours tomorrow.”

“I wouldn’t want him to feel he was alone.”

Miss Searle sounded, to Sister’s ears, uncharacteristically plaintive, a far cry from the casual self-assurance she had displayed on that holiday ten years ago. It was not the first time Sister had seen worry for one’s dearest prick the bladder of self-importance.

“He won’t be alone,” reassured Sister. “I’ll be here.” She retrieved handbag and Chaucer from beside the chair and offered them to Miss Searle, an unmistakable signal.

Even hysterical relatives recognised the implicit command, and Miss Searle was far from that. Rules and the implacable discipline of the institution closed in. Reluctance broadcast in her every movement.  However, she walked slowly toward the door. She paused for a moment to look back at the lone bed with its dear occupant: a strapping young man who nonetheless looked small and insignificant against the paraphernalia of traction. Sister Robinson, having taken the seat Miss Searle had just vacated, now sat facing away from the door, ostentatiously – and unnecessarily – taking the patient’s pulse, seemingly unaware of being observed. Experience had taught her the value to relatives of being seen to be busy, even when, in actuality, one was not.

Her back itched. Sister Robinson waited; and, when she shifted position long moments later, the doorway was empty. She retrieved a tapestry bag with her knitting from beneath the bed, felt in the capacious pockets of her apron for her scissors, and settled in for a long night.


End file.
